Feeling Good
by Victoria Squalor
Summary: Storybrooke!AU. Killian receives a visitor on Christmas Eve; sex and blasphemy ensue. (Smutfic; complete)


**A/N:** A Christmas gift for my lovely tumblr followers. This takes place in an alternate universe similar to that of Kiss in the Dreamhouse, but Killian's not posturing as a priest here. It's no less sacrilegious though!  
**disclaimer:** Don't own OUAT or anything else namedropped here.

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**Feeling Good**

by Victoria Squalor

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Christmas Eve programming was dire. A flock of singing choirboys whose balls had yet to drop, a thrilling live broadcast of a burning log in a fireplace, and of course, that perennial fucking favorite _It's a Wonderful Life, _which always made Killian root for the guy to jump off the bridge anyway out of pure spite. He was not a holiday person; Christmas was for families, and if he'd ever had one, he certainly didn't remember it.

The tattoo on his arm made him particularly maudlin this time of year, maudlin for _him _at least. He'd trace the outline of the heart and wonder if he and Milah had ever participated in any of this shit. Had they ever picked out a tree, exchanged gifts, drank heavily spiked eggnog while mocking sentimental Capra films? He couldn't even recall what she _looked _like, for Christ's sake, let alone if she'd even been anything more to him than a one-night stand during a hell of a bender, or if he'd even hallucinated her completely after a bad dose of acid, because there was nobody named Milah in Storybrooke. Any other time of year he was able to push it out of his head, but all the emphasis on love and togetherness that swelled up in this hick town come December made his imagination run wild about those faded ink lines on his arm, their true meaning forever lost beyond the borders of his own mind.

Thinking about one woman inevitably led to thinking about another, and so, as he flipped past televangelists pleading for money in the spirit of the season, he found his thoughts turning to Rory. He damn well knew he and the girl needed to stay away from each other. He had nothing to offer her, and he'd told her as much, more than once. But she just kept fucking _insisting_, because she sincerely seemed to believe he was worth it. That underneath the five-day-old stubble and lingering aroma of stale cigarette smoke and cheap rum, he was a regular prince.

Could he blame her? To her he _was_ a good samaritan, albeit one who'd nearly plowed her over with his car as she'd been stumbling half-dressed away from the hospital, her eyes those of a terrified doe caught in his headlights. A good samaritan who'd taken her home to his fair shithole of an apartment and let her sleep it off in his bed while he lay on the couch staring up at the spreading water stain on the ceiling, who'd been a perfect goddamned gentleman the whole time despite the fact that she was delicate and beautiful, a living Lladro figurine with the biggest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen, and he was lonely and horny. She was like a wounded, frightened bird who trembled when he got too close to her, and yet, after he'd pushed her back out into the world, insisting she stay out of his mess and let the actual bleeding hearts of Storybrooke pick up the slack, she kept _coming back._

It wasn't her fault. Rory had been in that coma a long time, apparently, and she had the blind faith of a child when it came to unsavory characters like himself. It didn't seem to bother her that, rather than holding down a respectable nine-to-five job, he earned his living at odd hours, dealing under cover of darkness down at the docks, stashing unmarked boxes in his closet, showing up with split knuckles and unexplained bruises, and generally existing at fucking Gold's beck and call, even when the call came at three in the morning. Things that should've been glaring neon warning signs for your average citizen, but not Rory; and that, oddly enough, made him feel protective of her.

But the only way to protect her from himself was to push her away, and so far it wasn't working too well.

The half-eaten carton of shrimp lo mein from the Emperor's Palace was fast growing congealed on the kitchen counter; Killian tossed it back in the fridge, figuring at least he'd have breakfast tomorrow. He hadn't been particularly hungry, but he'd cleared out most of the Sailor Jerry. He eyed the bottle warily, not relishing the notion of slogging back out into the slushy grey streets to fetch more, when he heard a soft, hesitant knock on the door.

He knew who that knock belonged to before he'd opened it.

The hood of her parka, the same winter blue of her eyes and trimmed with ratty-looking fur, drooped so far over her head that it obscured all but her soft pink mouth. "Hi," she said, her smile tremulous. "Merry Christmas."

Killian didn't bother to return the salutation, instead bracing his good arm against the door frame. "I thought you had a party to go to."

"I did." Rory pulled back her hood, the buzzing foyer bulb casting a weak halo atop her shining toffee-colored hair. Even in bad fluorescent lighting, even in those godawful ill-fitting clothes from the church collection box, she still managed to take his breath away. "I wasn't having any fun, so I left."

He stepped aside to let her in, helping her out of the damp quilted coat. She looked like a schoolgirl in her navy cardigan and sensible brown shoes, and he felt a sudden, inexplicable swelling of anger. Why the hell was she dressed like that going to a Christmas party? He got that she was living off charity for the time being, until she could get properly situated, but the thought of her looking that way, like a poor church mouse amongst the rest of those bourgeois fuckers resplendent in sequins and cashmere sweaters, made him furious. She deserved better than that. Silks and pumps and diamond studs, something befitting of her regal bearing.

He'd tried to help her out a little when he'd first sent her back out into town, tucking a few twenties he really couldn't spare at the time into an envelope and stuffing it in the pocket of the hoodie he'd loaned her, but two days later he'd found the the untouched money on his doormat, having been pushed through the mail slot. That had made him mad too. She'd take their charity, but his was somehow tainted.

"What, you got tired of low-end champagne and cheese platters and decided to go slumming instead?" he quipped as he sloshed the very last of the rum into his glass. There was nothing else to offer Rory aside from half a can of pineapple juice or tap water, both of which she politely declined.

She smiled thinly. "Everyone's been lovely, but…I can only take so much of happy families and lovers under the mistletoe before I go mad." Her eyes dropped to her hands, fiddling with a loose thread of yarn on the cuff of her sweater.

Killian watched her for what felt like an eternity, unraveling her sleeve and biting her lip and quite pointedly not meeting his gaze even though she'd sought him out in the first place. It was clever of her, really, he mused, to bait him this way. "And so you came to me."

She glanced up, peering at him under a fringe of dark lashes, looking…hopeful? Was that what it was? "Killian…"

"I already told you, Rory." He drained the glass in one swallow before slamming it down on the countertop. "Just…" He couldn't very well throw her out on Christmas Eve. _Fuck._ "It's a bad fucking idea, okay?"

Rory looked down at the empty glass, the scratched formica, at his hand now gripping the counter's edge. He'd already told her the story of how he'd lost the other one, at least what he recalled of it. _I stole something from my, uh, employer…and he punished me for it. _ Funny thing was, the memory was there, but it felt rehearsed, as if he'd convinced himself it had happened that way; and on top of that, he couldn't even remember what it was he'd stolen. _Does it matter? _ he heard Gold's voice say. _The point was, it was mine, and you took it. You get the point now, don't you?_

That devious fucking cripple was the number one reason for him not to get involved with Rory. She made him weak, and that weakness could be exploited. He was already dancing to the rhythm of the man's many strings as it was.

"I just…" Rory breathed deeply, and he cursed himself at the teary gloss forming in her eyes. "I can't go back to the shelter tonight, Killian. I can't—I can't sleep there. I have these nightmares, and—"

"The _shelter?_ What the hell are you doing there?" Killian felt his blood rising again. "I thought they said you could stay at Granny's as long as you wanted." What was wrong with these people, turning out a homeless girl who'd spent half her life as a vegetable so she could sleep on a hard fucking cot in a cold church basement? He was getting the urge to cut something. Or somebody.

"They—they did. I left." Her voice wobbled. "I was waking up screaming two, three times a night, and, well…their walls are thin. Guests were complaining. I can't…I just couldn't stay there. I don't want to bother anyone. I…" Tears flowed freely now down her cheeks. "This is the only place where I can sleep without dreaming, Killian. I don't…" She almost choked on her sobs. "I don't know why, but it's almost like you block them out."

He cursed himself again, moving to take her in his arms. She smelled blandly pleasant, the bouquet of some generic shampoo and a touch of peppermint from her toothpaste. She rubbed her tearstained cheek against the well-worn leather of his jacket, leaving a wet slick behind. "Want to sleep in my bed?" he whispered, slipping his hand under her cardigan to rub lazy circles on her back.

Rory nodded, and looked up, eyes locking with his. He tipped up her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "What else do you want?" he asked in a breath barely loud enough for her to hear.

She sniffled, eyes red and watery, but she was smiling. "I want to feel good," she whispered back. "Just once."

His body promptly overrode all other internal protests as his cock swelled within the confines of his jeans. Yes, it was still a bad fucking idea; he knew that. But _damn _it. She was beautiful and sad and broken and lonely as he was, and she wanted him. And in that moment, he wanted her more than anything else in the world, dark and diminutive as that world was.

He captured her mouth with his, pulling gently on her lower lip with his teeth before thrusting his tongue against hers. She purred low in her throat, a satisfied noise that spurred on his arousal. Off came the cardigan, the loose weave of the yarn catching on his prosthetic hook as he pried the buttons free. Underneath her thin cotton blouse was a plain, utilitarian white bra that was all business and no titillation; it had to go. If he had to give up booze temporarily to be able to afford to buy her some nice underwear, the sacrifice would be well worth it. Her breasts spilled free as he unhooked the thing, creamy mounds topped with little pink peaks. He rolled his thumb over the right nipple, working it outward in a slow spiral over the breast as he knelt to suckle the left one. Rory was quivering and making the most delightful sounds, soft gasps of "oh" and "_ah_" interspersed with breathy moans of his name.

Her straight grey skirt and similarly dull panties were the next to go, and he renewed his resolve to invest in a few nice lace thongs as he tugged them down to her ankles. The knee-high trouser socks could stay; they weren't stockings, but they were close enough. The wooden beaded bracelet on her wrist, adorned with tiny pictures of blessed saints that had no doubt been a gift from the Mother Superior, could stay too. The thought of those pious little figures bearing witness to their sinful union held massive appeal for the blasphemer in him.

Killian impatiently shed his own jacket and the layers beneath it, but accepted Rory's assistance when it came to unzipping his jeans. She rubbed him through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, smiling at his throttled expression as she pulled the waistband out and down, pausing to kiss the tip of his penis as it flopped over the side, rigid and red and pulsing with blood. His mouth contorted in a silent scream as she delicately licked the head, stroking one fingertip along the big vein. Killian wasn't used to being teased like this. Most of his one-night stands just climbed on the bed and kicked their legs into the air, expecting no more than a thorough pounding from his nightstick, and for him to do all the work.

She released him, and he tried not to groan in frustration as she straightened back up; but it seemed as if she'd gone suddenly shy and wrapped her arms around him again, hiding her face in his neck. He allowed himself to enjoy the feel of her skin lingering on his, of her lips tenderly nuzzling his throat as his erect cock pressed against her own scorching mound. "Now, I want to do this right and proper, I do," he mumbled against her ear, and she giggled nervously, "you know, lay you on the bed and make it nice and romantic. But right now, I just want to fuck you deep and hard as I possibly can." He bit her lobe. "You know, take the edge off."

She blinked blue eyes at him and he felt another rush of blood leave his head. "Yes."

"Yes what? Yes to the hard fucking?" Killian prompted, wanting to see if that pretty blush in her cheeks would grow any deeper. It did.

"Yes, please," Rory whispered, and giggled again.

He grasped for his wallet, still tucked in the pocket of his discarded jeans, and fumbled about with the contents until he extracted a black foil square. Tearing it open with his teeth, he hastily rolled the condom down the length of his cock and prayed to the saints on Rory's bracelet that it didn't break, as it was his last one.

"All right." Killian's throat was so dry at this point his voice sounded as if it were buried under gravel. "This way, love." He grasped her cool hand in his big warm one and led her to the couch. It was one of the nicer things he owned, a bit threadbare in patches but large and certainly comfortable enough to fuck on. The television was still on, halted on a broadcast of midnight mass, the parishioners on screen opening their mouths to receive the body of Christ. Killian plumped a pillow up for her head before urging her to lay down, guiding her right leg straight up in the air so he had better access to her sweet, dripping cunt. _God, _she was so wet already that she clearly needed no help from him, but he couldn't resist dipping into those dewy folds, just for a taste. The girl definitely took care of herself, and she was clean and tart on his tongue. He suckled her clit, enjoying the way it made her squirm beneath him, urging her hips up for more as she whimpered loudly.

Fun as that was, however, he needed to be inside her more, and rose up above her, lifting both her legs over his elbows. He hadn't the patience to bother with pretense; he leaned over to plant a kiss between her breasts, nudging the head between her folds as he did so, then pushed his cock all the way in. _Jesus. _She felt incredible, even with the damned latex barrier. "Oh, my _God_, you're so fucking tight," he hissed in time with his thrusts. "So wet, so hot, _oh, _fuck, _Rory." _She arched her back and moaned lustily, the sound of her pleasure a perverse contrast to the strains of "Adeste Fideles" coming from the TV. He braced one hand on the armrest behind her head and began deep thrusting in earnest, pulling out nearly to the tip each time before slamming his cock back in as hard as he could. "_Oh God, oh God, oh God,_" Rory wailed, over and over again in a never-ending litany, and he swore the Latin chanting in the background grew even louder.

Killian loved watching his dick slide in and out of that tight, slippery cleft, but he knew how to make her even tighter. He backed off a bit and pushed her legs up so they were flush against his chest, her ankles on either side of his face, and resumed his heated fucking, relishing the extra squeeze around his cock and the volume of her exhortations. "Killian…oh, harder, _harder, harder," _she cried. "_Fuck _me. You're s…so _good." _Her voice was rasping from the efforts of her praise, and he thought he might cum just from the sound alone. "I _need…harder."_

"Any harder, love, I'll be in your throat," Killian grunted, his voice nearly drowned out by the sharp slapping of their flesh as he pounded away, his balls smacking the cleft of her ass with each stroke. His body was on fire, his pores shining with sweat, his cock being repeatedly gripped by that exquisite little cunt, and oh, God, there it was, too soon, far sooner than he expected. His body stilled, his thrusts halted as he finally exploded in a burst of white-hot pleasure. He stayed inside her until he softened, despite his eagerness to dispose of his fully loaded condom; he was determined to linger in that warm sanctuary as long as possible.

Rory was as exhausted as he was but not quite done, so he spooned around her and began massaging her clit as he kissed the back of her neck and listened to her mewl like a kitten. She pressed her thighs together tightly and rocked back and forth as he stroked and whispered sweet dirty nothings in her ear. "Like it when I rub your little pussy?" he breathed, and she keened an affirmation just before clutching the cushions beneath her and shuddering deeply, her breath escaping in quick pants.

He clutched her body to his as she came down from her orgasm, smoothing her sweaty hair and pressing open-mouthed kisses to her shoulder. "Feeling good?" he asked, a bit mischievously.

"Yes." Rory's reply was a deep relieved sigh. "Although I think I'm going to have to do about five decades of Hail Marys to repent for this."

"What, our mocking this most holy of television broadcasts with our fornication?" He grinned and gently nibbled the upper shell of her ear. "You _are _spending too much time in that church."

"Well, Mother Superior does seem to think I have potential as a nun."

"Sweetheart, you're as likely to be a nun as I am to be an upstanding member of society. Though I'll be happy to tell her how devout you are, screaming the Lord's name every time I fill your holiness."

Rory dissolved into giggles. "You're _wicked_, Killian."

"Would you like me half as much if I wasn't?"

"You're not bad." She rolled over to face him and kiss him softly on the nose. "You've been nothing but kind to me since the beginning."

_It's because it's you, _he wanted to say, but didn't. He had no idea what made Rory special, why he should have treated her any differently than any other girl, but he had, and now he was in it deep, all right. Right up to his balls.

Things were only going to get more and more complicated. Rory couldn't tell anyone about him, certainly not the nuns, and not the common do-gooders like Blanchard either, lest they sit her down for a hefty reassessment of her life choices. She might tell Ruby, he mused, which—_ugh_—might culminate in them comparing notes, although he hoped she'd been too drunk that night to remember most of it, because he certainly didn't. And he needed to be even _more_ careful. If Gold found out that he had a soft spot…well, no, he _couldn't _. It was simple as that.

He couldn't think about these things right now, though, not when Rory was snuggling up against him, her hair tickling his thoat as she nuzzled the base. "Take me to bed, Killian," she murmured sleepily. "I feel like I could sleep for decades."


End file.
